


a garden made flesh

by necrotype



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Horror, Gore, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 19:31:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1790593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/necrotype/pseuds/necrotype
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alastair plants a new garden every morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a garden made flesh

Every morning, Alastair plants a new garden. 

“I’ll make you into something beautiful,” he coos, gently peeling off thin strips of Dean’s skin. It’s the same words every morning, the promise Dean craves and hates. Alastair never keeps the flesh; he throws it to the soil-covered ground and lets the decomposers thrive. The smell of rot clogs Dean’s nose in a way that makes his toes curl. 

Dean knows that the ground is damp, covered in moss and fungi, little mushrooms that wait for their daily meal. He’s felt them on his bare feet before, when Alastair pulls him up and holds him close. When Dean cries, Alastair strokes his back with slender and bony fingers, before setting him back on the old and worn table where the garden belongs.

When all of his skin is gone, fallen to the ground, Dean feels warmth seeping out from his body.

“It’s only blood, Dean,” Alastair says. His voice rasps in a way that makes Dean shiver. “You have plenty left.” The next part of their script. Dean knows what to say.

“Yes.” He’s been saying _yes_ now for years, and it’s the only word he knows.

Deftly, Alastair starts pulling out his organs. The sound of steel on flesh makes Dean’s heart race, until Alastair pulls that out too. He has a special place for the innards, close by and safe, so Alastair can put him back together when the day is done and Dean is decayed. 

He cracks open Dean’s ribcage and plants seeds where his heart should be. The roots immediately settle, and flowers start blooming, their curling stems growing out to the light. Every day, Alastair picks new flowers. Today, poppies emerge from the space where his lungs used to rest, and a bed of tulips replace his intestines.

Below, the decomposers grow.

Dean loses track of time in the feeling of a slender finger against his jawline, in the sound of Alastair’s comforting whispers in his ear, in the smell of flowers and decay. The day ends when the garden dies and petals fall.

The organs are replaced with care. The skin grows back on its own. Alastair scrubs Dean for an hour, washing away the blood and the dirt and the petals, until he is whole and clean again. Alastair is warm and gentle in a way that John wasn’t, and he is cold and harsh in a way that Mary could never be. 

Dean wants more.


End file.
